Continuum ALLEN CURNOW
The moon rolls over the roof and falls behind my house, and the moon does neither of these things, I am talking about myself. It’s not possible to get off to sleep or the subject or the planet, nor to think thoughts. Better barefoot it out the front door and lean from the porch across the privets and the palms into the washed-out creation, a dark place with two particular bright clouds dusted (query) by the moon, one’s mine the other’s an adversary, which may depend on the wind or something. A long moment stretches, the next one is not on time. Not unaccountably the chill of the planking underfoot rises in the throat, for its part the night sky empties the whole of its contents down. Turn on a bare heel, close the door behind on the author, cringing demiurge, who picks up his litter and his tools and paces me back to bed, stealthily in step.